


The Meaning of the Word

by Moments_of_Clarity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jaime isn't always the most reliable narrator, Pre-Relationship, The Jaime and Brienne King's Landing Chronicles, and in love but don't tell them that, book references: some are subtle some are akin to a brick to the face, but the song remains the same, now officially a lot more than 4k words, the plot is nearly 4k words of these two being awkward as hell, two sad knights in need of comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22953694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moments_of_Clarity/pseuds/Moments_of_Clarity
Summary: Jaime and Brienne take a walk their first night in King's Landing and discuss the news of the day, most of which is bad.Now the ongoing encounters of Jaime and Brienne; in which they banter, argue, have some pretty heavy discussions, laugh, and absolutely do not flirt.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 38
Kudos: 92





	1. Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I do plan to continue this but I've marked it as complete as I'm not sure whether I'll add the next part here or make this a series. Title comes from All This and Heaven Too by Florence + the Machine. Also, I realise that if Jaime and Brienne are looking out at the Blackwater, they'd be facing east and therefore can't be getting the view of sunset they are here. But artistic license says I can do things like ignore science, so I have.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne take a walk their first night in King's Landing and discuss the news of the day, most of which is bad.

His conversation with his brother goes better than his reunion with Cersei; but considering how poorly his sister reacted to his maiming, and his unkempt appearance, and his audacity at being captured, Tyrion could have spat in his eye and Jaime would still call it an improvement. 

He won't see Tywin until the morrow; because gods forbid his father take half an hour away from his duties as Hand of the King to see to the welfare of his children. No, it would be undignified of a Lannister to abandon their duties for something so sentimental as welcoming a family member home after such an extended and unwilling absence. Roose Bolton, the cold bastard, will have already informed Tywin of Jaime's injury, and by sunset the Spider will have heard enough whispers to satisfy whatever curiosity the Lord Hand may have. Jaime's meeting with him is all but superfluous, but he will go all the same. 

Until then, his only priority–now he has seen Cersei and Tyrion for himself–is a long hot bath. Jaime’s feet take him to his small quarters in the White Sword Tower before he remembers he is Lord Commander, and his new chambers are located at the top of the great tower. The Kingsguard is meant to shun material wealth and so the Lord Commander’s chambers are only slightly better furnished than his former quarters, but they are larger by far and include a large tub that Jaime plans to use to full advantage. 

While the servants fill the tub, Jaime looks out the window at the crowded city beyond the walls of the Red Keep–the better to ignore the pitying and disgusted looks he senses directed at his back. In the early evening sun and from this height, nothing about King’s Landing had changed. However, Tyrion has made him aware of just how close the smallfolk had come to storming the Keep. If not for the timely arrival of the Tyrell army and their hundreds of wagons of food Jaime may very well have returned to a city in the midst of a riot and golden heads on spikes. 

He dismisses the servants once the last pail of boiling water has been poured, certain it is not just paranoia that makes him think some linger by the door. Truthfully, he could use assistance but he isn’t ready to accept help from strangers likely to spread gossip. 

He takes his time scrubbing the dirt of the road off his skin, allowing the hot water to soothe his aching muscles and his mind to drift. Eventually his meandering thoughts turn to Brienne. He ordered her to be given suitable quarters as his honoured guests, making it clear that she is to be treated as befitting her station as a highborn lady– despite all appearances to the contrary. He really should make sure his order has been followed and that the wench is comfortable. Jaime doubts she will enjoy her time at Court–she’s hardly here for pleasure. But that doesn’t mean she needs to shut herself away from everyone. And besides, he can use the distraction.

Decision made, Jaime finishes bathing and chooses out garments he will be able to put on with one hand with as little difficulty as possible. In the morning he will need to find a squire to assist him, and someone to shave his beard and trim his hair. He can’t appear in front of his father looking like some pig-stealing peasant. For today though he will endure all on his lonesome.

It takes some time before he is dressed and tracks down someone who knows where Brienne has been situated. Jaime knocks on her door and waits–longer than he anticipated–for her response. As he raises his hand to knock again when the door finally cracks open wide enough to reveal Brienne’s hunched form. His greeting dries up in his throat as he catches a glimpse of her watery and red-rimmed eyes, before she ducks her head further into her chest.

Jaime curses himself for a thrice-damned fool for forgetting the rest of what Tyrion has told him. The wedding at the Twins, the slaughter of the Starks and their loyal men, Roose Bolton’s new position as Warden of the North. He had even thought he should be the one to tell Lady Catelyn’s sworn sword of her death, but he had been distracted upon learning that Tyrion is a newlywed; the reluctant husband of Sansa Stark. And now it is far too late to break the news gently. 

“You heard.” 

Brienne nods and takes a deep but shaky breath accompanied by some very undainty sniffling. He feels a flash of shame at the sound of his former traveling companion trying to choke back her sobs. It may have been Bolton and the Freys who carried out the deed, but it was Tywin who planned it; Jaime would know that to be true even without Tyrion’s confirmation. 

“Shall we take a walk?” Jaime suggests. “Perhaps to the godswood? There’s a lovely view of the Blackwater Rush, a fresh sea breeze, and it’s refreshingly quiet compared to the Keep.” 

Brienne hesitates before she catches on to what he was trying to tell her–or maybe she’s just decided she does want to get out of the Red Keep for a while. Either way, she nods again and steps out from behind the door. 

She is folded in on herself in a way that Jaime has not witnessed from her before. Even when she’d been in pain after the bear pit she’d kept her back straight and her eyes ahead. For that reason, Jaime at first finds the sight of her tears surprising, but they become less so when he considers all he has learnt about Brienne in their time together. The warrior maiden may have kept up her stoic composure in the face of threats to her own person but she clearly feels things deeply, possibly more so than anyone he has met before. Her admiration of her lady is obvious and her commitment to her duty is unquestionable. Of course she cries at the loss of Catelyn Stark. 

He leads the way through the halls and out into the open air, though Brienne is in danger of leaving him behind with her longer strides. He remains silent, not daring to speak until they are deep into the woods; all the while studiously ignoring Brienne’s movements at his side, the hurried way she swipes her hands across her eyes. 

Thankfully they don’t pass too many people on the way to their destination, and the ones they cross paths with are for the most part servants as they hurry about their own business. Jaime doesn’t doubt that at least one of those servants has made note of them, or that some unseen courtier has watched them leave. But he is of the belief that who Jaime Lannister is walking with is less of an interesting source of gossip than his ostensible lack of five fingers and a hand. 

Once they’re under the shade of the trees, Jaime slows his pace, resting his hand on Brienne’s arm to stop her charging ahead. Side by side they make their steady way through the elms and alders and black cottonwoods; the setting sun barely lighting their path. Leaves and twigs crunch and snap beneath their feet, noises that make it difficult for any potential spies to conceal their movement. 

It’s with the knowledge that this is as close to true privacy as it is possible to get within the walls of the Red Keep, that Jaime finally speaks. “I assume you also heard about Sansa and her marriage to my brother.” 

Brienne startles at the sudden break in the silence, though Jaime has kept his voice low. “I did,” she replies in a barely audible mumble. 

“Would it help to know that he hasn’t touched her?” 

Brienne doesn’t quite turn her gaze to him, but Jaime thinks he sees something in her uncoil ever so slightly–her face relaxes just a fraction and she stands a little straighter. “That is… kind of him.” Her voice sounds hoarse, as though she’s just woken up. 

_Or has been crying for several hours._ “Tyrion _is_ the kindest Lannister,” Jaime says. “Which isn't saying much, we're a rather heinous bunch.” Brienne gives a low hum which could mean anything from agreement to denial to indifference. He tries not to take offence. “But truly, Sansa is a child and my brother has no desire to subject her to the ordeal of bedding a man from the same family that slaughtered hers.” 

“Slaughtered,” Brienne echoes. “Yes.” She starts to chew on her already chapped lips with such ferocity that Jaime worries she'll make herself bleed. 

“I don't mourn the Starks,” he tells her abruptly. Brienne stops walking and gapes at him. She looks ridiculous and hurt, and Jaime hastens to explain. “I had no love for Ned Stark, sanctimonious prick that he was. Catelyn, I could have liked were it not for the fact she and her harpy of a sister nearly got my brother killed. I would have run the eldest boy through given the chance.”

Brienne interrupts him with her incoherent spluttering. She takes a breath to gather herself and then another. “What,” she demands, “are you talking about? Are you actually trying to justify wh—”

“What I am trying to say,” he stresses, “admittedly rather poorly, is that despite my personal grievances against the elder Starks, I don’t necessarily agree with how this was handled. It was…” Here he trails off, not quite willing to condemn his father's action, all of Tywin’s lectures on family unity ringing in his ears. But for reasons unknown to him, Jaime hates the thought that Brienne may think he approves of such underhanded methods.

Before he can decide on a word, she provides her own. “Dishonourable.” 

“I suppose so,” he reluctantly agrees. It’s not that he thinks she is wrong, but the Starks were an obstacle to the safety of the people he loves and now that obstacle has been removed. Can he really complain about the method when the results have favoured him? Were he in his father’s place, would he have been willing to take the chance that peace with the North could be negotiated with the return of their princesses and indepence from the Iron Throne? What peace could have been possible, after Joffrey had the beloved Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North executed for treason?

Brienne shakes her head. “No, this is not something you can equivocate,” she argues. “It’s the breaking of guest rights and the murder of unarmed and unsuspecting men and women who never had a chance to fight back. It was wrong.” 

_Gods, just when I was beginning to think she was starting to understand that honour is just a word–an ideal. I’ve already admitted my distaste for Father’s methods, what more does she want?_

“You give your opinion quite freely for someone who is a guest of the Lannisters, _wench_ ,” he rejoins in the lofty tone that comes so naturally to him. 

“Am I?”

“What, opinionated? Certainly.”

“A guest.”

“And what else would you be?” Jaime questions. 

“A prisoner,” she clarifies, as though it were the obvious answer and not a direct contradiction of the treatment she has received thus far. 

“If you were a prisoner, you would be in a cell,” he informs her.

“Not all cells have bars, ser.” The wind suddenly changes direction and Brienne picks up her head and sniffs the air like a dog on the hunt. Jaime watches baffled as she turns on her heel and walks away from him without another word. 

“I am aware, my lady,” he mutters at her retreating back, before he follows her. She isn’t moving so fast that he couldn’t easily catch up with her; but he elects to remain a few feet behind, keeping her in his sight. 

The trees begin to thin, then he hears the waves crashing gently against the shore and distant shouting. Brienne breaks through the tree line onto a small terrace that overlooks the Blackwater, and it’s then Jaime realises she’s been following the scent of the sea. The sun is steadily sinking on the horizon, the orange, red and purple of evenfall giving way to darkest blue. 

“A lovely view of the Blackwater, as promised my lady.” Brienne’s face is hard to see in the fading light of day, but Jaime watches as the corners of her mouth tilt upwards ever so slightly. He’s never seen a true smile from her, they have never been in a situation together in which a smile would be warranted. But this small twitch makes him feel something like triumph. 

“It is quite nice,” Brienne admits, and Jaime scoffs. 

“Quite nice, she says. I suppose the paltry Blackwater cannot compare with the sapphire waters of Tarth?”

“Nothing can,” she states. He debates asking her more about her home but stays silent–she hasn’t responded well to his questioning in the past. Probably because he was less interested in details like favourite colours and fondest childhood memories, than he was with finding a sore spot he could exploit. It seems Brienne is in a talkative mood tonight though because she turns to him and says, “You spoke to your brother.” 

“Yes,” he confirms, assuming she has questions about Sansa. 

“And he… your family, they're all… well?” The words come out awkwardly but Jaime can tell it’s a genuine question. Brienne is truly concerned for the wellbeing of the people who are, for all intents and purposes, her enemies. He doesn’t remember the last time he was in the presence of someone with such a capacity for selfless compassion. Maybe he never has. 

“Cersei and the children are well,” he responds, after a pause that was verging on uncomfortable. “Myrcella is in Dorne and betrothed to Trystane Martell. Tyrion’s idea. He thought it would keep the Dornish sweet. Cersei was none too thrilled with the idea but it’s done.” 

“And did it? Keep them sweet? And is she happy there?” 

“Well no army has crossed the Marches, so I’d say so. There have been a few letters from Myrcella and some from Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, who escorted her. Both accounts say that the princess has taken to Dorne like a bird to flight, and Trystane is a gallant young man. Ser Arys writes that all the Martells are quite taken with her.” 

It doesn’t surprise Jaime that the daughter he cannot claim as his own has adapted so quickly to her new surroundings. She always was the most independent and adventurous of Cersei’s brood, more open to new experiences than her brothers. Nor by the fact that she has been so quick to make friends; Tommen is kind but shy and Joffrey is… Joffrey. 

“I’m glad,” Brienne says. “And what of your brother?” 

Jaime sighs deeply. “Tyrion… almost died. He almost died, more than once and I wasn’t there for him.” It was for the sake of getting Tyrion back from the She-Wolf that Jaime had attacked Ned Stark’s men and left King’s Landing. In hindsight, Tywin had been right, the attack had been stupid and rash. But cool logic mattered little to Jaime when his brother’s life was in danger. 

Brienne reaches out but pulls back before she touches him. “But he is out of danger?”

“Are any of us?” he asks without expectation of an answer. “But yes, he is mostly healed. Lysa Arryn almost had him thrown out the fucking moondoor. If not for a sellsword who thought Lannister gold was worth the risk of dying in a trial by combat, we wouldn’t have even gotten his body back. Then our father insisted he lead the mountain men he’d picked up from the Vale into battle. Fortunately he got knocked out before he left camp, and was unconscious for the whole thing. But once he got to King’s Landing—” Jaime clenches his remaining hand and growls in frustration at all the events that have taken place while he was helpless to stop them. 

This time Brienne’s hand makes contact, a light squeeze to his shoulder that is nearly imperceptible and gone in a heartbeat. Even so Jaime relaxes under that touch, enough that he can continue his tale without screaming. “Father appointed him Hand in his absence. And he was doing well. He’s always been so clever. And he cares about people, they don’t see it but he does. Have you heard about the Battle of the Blackwater?” 

“A little,” Brienne answers. “ Stannis was turned back at the walls by the arrival of the Tyrells, his fleet all but destroyed.”

“By wildfire.” That had been an unpleasant bit of information to learn. His siblings; taking turns to make the same substance that he himself killed Aerys over. Brienne hisses in a sharp, shocked breath. “Tyrion set the Blackwater ablaze. But it wasn’t enough. Stannis’s force still reached shore, though far fewer in number. The men were beginning to lose courage, especially after Cersei ordered Joffrey to be brought back into the Keep. So Tyrion rallied them, called them out on their cowardice and led them beyond the walls to bring the battle to the enemy.” 

Although it is completely dark now, the moon is full and his eyes are rapidly adjusting to the moonlight. He can see that Brienne’s mouth is slightly agape and her eyes are wide, though the night has stolen the blue of them from his sight. 

“There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity,” Jaime muses and Brienne mutters something under her breath. He thinks the word _bear_ is mentioned. “Tyrion was holding up well until—” This is the part Jaime has trouble with. He is no innocent, and is quite aware that the Kingsguard, for the past several years, has been made up of himself, a few good knights, and some not worthy of the title let alone the white cloak. But he never fathomed that one of his so-called brothers would try to kill his actual flesh and blood. “Mandon Moore, formerly of the Kingsguard and formerly of the living tried to kill him.”

Brienne gasps. “A white cloak? But why would a member of the Kingsguard want to kill their king’s uncle?” 

Jaime ignores Brienne’s careful avoidance of referring to Joffrey as _the_ king and gives a sad laugh. “Popular theory is that he was following his king’s orders. Moore damn near sliced Tyrion’s face off.”

Fortunately Tyrion's squire was able to save him from death if not injury. He doesn't tell her that the squire had killed Moore, something his brother has confided to him and requested Jaime keep to himself. “Best Joffrey not learn about that,” his brother warned, and Jaime agreed. Not that he thinks Brienne would ever betray his confidence in such a way but he has given his word to Tyrion that he won't tell anyone, and so he won't. 

“I'm sorry that your return was marred by all this,” she hesitates, “conflict.” 

Jaime nearly laughs. _Conflict. A neat little word to describe the various fuck ups, power plays, and back-stabbing schemes of the Lannister family_. 

“Alas, it was never going to be easy,” he laments, “for I have a very complicated family.” And yet, throughout his journey from the Riverlands, he had believed that his homecoming would actually feel like coming home. Instead it feels like nothing more than the latest in a series of events he must suffer though. Suddenly he feels weighed down with exhaustion, ready to fall asleep on his feet. “We should retire to our beds, my lady. We’ve been up since dawn and tomorrow will be an ordeal, I am sure.”

Brienne nods and together they walk back into the godswood, leaving the sounds of the waves and the briny smell of the sea behind them. His exhaustion must be clear to Brienne, for she stays closer to his side than she did on the walk here, as though preparing to catch him should he fall. He considers telling her he’ll be fine, but he isn’t certain that’s true. Maybe he’ll swoon into the wench’s strong arms for a second time, and won’t everyone get a laugh out of that. 

They maintain silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until they’ve passed through the gate that leads them into the Keep once more. “Tomorrow I will be meeting with my father and familiarising myself with my new duties,” Jaime informs Brienne. “That should take the whole day but don’t feel you must confine yourself to your chamber in the absence of an escort. As my guest you’ll have free reign of most of the areas of the Keep.” 

_Fool, as though she will be spending the days locked away in her room, nothing better to do than anticipate my visits._

“I received a note from Lady Margaery this afternoon,” Brienne tells him. “She requests that I visit her and her grandmother in the gardens tomorrow.” She wrings her hands in a painful looking manner. Jaime finds fear and nerves to be the appropriate response to meeting the infamous Queen of Thorns. Even Robert had kept well away from that woman. 

“If they wanted you arrested for Renly’s murder, you’d already be in the Black Cells,” he reassures her. It doesn’t seem to work, if anything she currently looks both nervous _and_ nauseous. “Just remember to mind the thorns, wench, and you’ll be fine.” 

Brienne glares at him, but having–several times–been on the receiving end of a glare given by an honestly angered Brienne of Tarth, he knows she isn’t truly vexed. Indeed, he’d say her voice is almost playful when she asks, “Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

“Are you ever going to stop responding so amusingly when I do?” he retorts and she merely rolls her eyes and sighs. 

They have reached her chambers, and she unlocks and opens the door but doesn’t yet pass the threshold. When she turns to face him, her blues eyes are bright and calm. Brienne doesn’t exactly tower over him; the difference in their heights is only a few inches after all, but it is a novel experience for Jaime to have to look _up_ at someone. He’d found it infuriating at first; that his captor could both literally and figuratively look down on him–but he has become accustomed to the fact that this woman is taller, broader, and stronger than he. 

“Thank you, Ser Jaime.” That almost-smile is once again tugging at the corners of her mouth. “For the visit and for the distraction. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, my lady. Sleep well.” 

Brienne enters her room and starts to close the door. The last thing he hears from her before it shuts completely is a soft, “Goodnight, Jaime.” 

Jaime lingers at her door for a protracted moment–listening as the bolt is slid into place and the sound of her boots crossing the stone floors fades away–before he leaves for his own bed, feeling lighter and more sanguine about the mostly unsatisfactory day he has had, and the ones yet to come. 


	2. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up and there is a garden party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost: I hope everyone reading this is doing as well as they can during these uncertain times. Stay safe and take care of yourself and each other. 
> 
> Second: Yes, this is now an ongoing chapter fic. It will definitely end when Brienne leaves KL. Any possible follow up after that will be posted on its own.
> 
> Third: I read the script for "Two Swords" after posting the first chapter and it turns out I remembered a lot of things from that episode incorrectly. I didn't realise there was such a time jump from Jaime and Brienne arriving and Jaime getting Oathkeeper. I forgot it was Brienne who approached Margaery. I didn't even really notice until I was paying attention that Jaime being disowned and getting his golden hand happen on the same day. I thought Brienne and Jaime had their conversation about Sansa a lot sooner than they actually did. I don't care to change what I wrote in the first chapter or what I've planned, so while this fic is still canon compliant for the most part, things are happening when I need them to happen. 
> 
> Fourth: I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter but quite honestly I need to post this for my own peace of mind. Sorry if it doesn't quite flow, the second half in particular. 
> 
> Last: How does everyone feel about an outsider POV at some point? I already know who it would be and roughly when it would take place but I'm just wondering if readers would prefer it be posted as a seperate piece.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

The morning after Tywin disowns him, Jaime stands at his window and admires the way the sun reflects off the Valyrian steel in his hand. The sword is a thing of true beauty; expertly forged and so full of deadly promise that Jaime can almost delude himself into thinking he is the invincible knight he once believed himself to be, all those years ago when Ser Arthur Dayne solemnly commanded him to rise as a knight of the seven kingdoms. 

Then Jaime sees the tremor in his left hand, even the lightness of Valyrian steel too much for his weak and untrained appendage. And he knows–despite the lion, the gold, and the rubies that mark it as a Lannister creation–this sword is not meant for him. 

He will train himself to fight again; he isn't ready to learn who he is without a sword in hand, even if it will now be wielded in his left. But the sword his father has given him–first as an intended consolation gift for leaving the Kingsguard and then as one last 'fuck you' for refusing to do so–is better suited for a true knight; one still in their prime. 

With a sigh he sheaths the sword with some difficulty and sets it on his desk before he leaves the White Sword Tower. Yesterday he had been occupied by his father and his duties as Lord Commander. Today he has plans with Tyrion; an afternoon enjoying the last of the warm weather before the encroaching winter reaches the capitol. There will be expensive wine, more food than he can reasonably eat, and the company of his brother–all things Jaime has missed greatly. 

He strolls out to the gardens and is heading towards the courtyard where Tyrion awaits, when he sees a familiar form in the distance, sitting on a stone bench in the shade of a large oak tree. With barely any consideration Jaime diverts from his intended path and walks towards Brienne, who appears to be lost in contemplation; head bowed and seemingly enthralled by her own feet. 

The sound of his boots on the graveled path break her from her reverie–her back straightens and she lifts her gaze in his direction, and even across the dozen or so feet that still separate them Jaime can easily distinguish the very particular and vivid blue of Brienne’s eyes. Her expression turns guarded, her body poised as if preparing to bolt at the slightest provocation. Jaime smirks as he steps closer and watches as her wariness is replaced with surprise. Her eyes widen fractionally and her jaw begins to slacken before she catches herself and ruthlessly clenches it shut. She springs to her feet; brushing off her breeches, ducking her head as she does so and allowing herself time for her face to return to its usual bland mask. 

“Good afternoon, Ser Jaime.” She is almost able to hide it, that slight upward inflection in her words which betray her lingering uncertainty. Almost, but not completely, and Jaime confirms what he has already guessed; Brienne hadn’t been able to immediately identify him. 

He can hardly blame her. For all the time Brienne has known him, Jaime had looked like something other than himself; some unkempt filthy half-starved creature dressed in rags, who bore little resemblance to the renowned Lion of Lannister. The first time he'd seen himself after Lady Catelyn had released him to her sworn sword's tender mercies, reflected in the waters of the Red Fork, he had been perturbed. He distinctly remembers thinking that he no longer looked like Cersei, and how much she would hate that. 

Now he is clean shaven and his hair is trimmed and returning to its true colour. Now he is wearing clothes tailored for him, made of rich fabrics that don't itch. Now he once more looks like the golden twin of the golden queen–albeit with somewhat less symmetry than previously–and it is Brienne staring at Jaime like he is a stranger.

He thinks about teasing her, delivering some dry remark that will cause the wench to glare at him, or to stammer and flush, or his personal preference; to bite back. Instead he decides to spare her blushes and let her believe he has failed to notice her slip. “Good afternoon, Lady Brienne. You've chosen a fine day to admire the scenery, though I confess I hadn't thought this to be how you'd pass the time.” 

“I have little else to do, ser.” There is a note of something in her voice, some sort of rebuke or accusation. Or maybe Jaime is imagining it, for Brienne isn't glaring or scowling at him, instead she seems… restless. 

“You're welcome to use the practice yards if you ever tire of garden parties with the Tyrells.” Jaime finds it surprising she isn't there now; knocking men half her size and with half her strength and skill into the dirt.

Her shoulders slump and she sighs. “I did visit them yesterday morning, before I met with Lady Margaery. Despite the early hour it was already crowded.”

Jaime gives a nonchalant shrug. “And so? You may be absurdly tall and ridiculously broad but you cannot possibly take up so much space as the entire training yard.”

She frowns, looking down at him with annoyance in her bright blue eyes. “That is not the problem. It would have been a waste of time attempting to train if I would have no peace in which to do so.” 

He returns her frown though it isn't directed at her. “If any of those men have been harassing you, give me names and I'll—”

“I did not give them the chance,” Brienne says before Jaime is able to deliver what would surely be an ineffectual threat given he can't tie his own boot laces these days. “It's not that I care about their insults, there is nothing they could say I haven't already heard dozens of times in my life. But… maybe in a few days I can… just not right now.”

Jaime finds himself wanting to comfort the wench, and not for the first time. There have been times in his life where he has felt one wrong word anyway from losing his self-control. It was his siblings and the memories of better days that had gotten him through. 

And then his hand had been cut off and the pain had been so all-consuming that he couldn't even find the memories of Cersei that had seen him through the worst days under Aerys. In the days that followed, his sanity and his will to live had been perched on the most precarious of ledges, the ground crumbling at his feet, and Jaime wasn't able to find the motivation to take even one step back. It had been Brienne who had led him back to solid ground. It's only fair he at least try to do the same in return.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost doesn't hear what she says next. “It hardly seems worth it though. No one would consent to spar with me anyway.”

“Cowards,” Jaime declares and Brienne scoffs. 

“Do not pretend you would be willing, had our circumstances been different.”

“I pretend nothing, wench.” Truthfully, Jaime would give almost anything to have his sword hand back just long enough for one good, proper bout with Brienne. They have unfinished business; their first and last fight interrupted before he could properly assess her skills. That she is talented, he has no doubts. He has seen her in action when she had the last laugh against those Stark men, has heard of her victory in Renly’s melee where she planted Loras Tyrell on his back. But he knows what he has witnessed for himself is only a small measure of her true capability with a sword; that he has yet to see what would happen were she to fully utilise all her strength and stamina and training against an opponent of equal standing. While Jaime could have once been that opponent, now he is a useless cripple who wouldn’t provide a challenge to the likes of Joffrey, let alone Brienne. His knowledge is still there and he can share that–but what are words compared to the kiss of steel? 

Jaime shakes off his melancholy thoughts and slowly runs his gaze over Brienne; her impressive height, the thickly muscled frame that is not in the least hidden by her clothing, her long limbs and strong shoulders. She is powerful and controlled and something altogether rare. “On the contrary,” he tells her, “I can easily imagine coming across you in the training yard and wanting to test your mettle.” Brienne slowly shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s true,” he insists. “And if our one and only spar was anything to go by, it would have been quite the test.”

“Spar?” Brienne says incredulously. She takes a step forward and narrows her eyes. He might find it menacing, except he’s fairly confident she has no intention of punching him. “You tried to kill me.”

Jaime grins in a way he has been assured by many to be both charming and persuasive. “Ah, but I didn’t succeed. Thus we can forgive and forget any past misdeeds, and look instead to the future.” 

A strangled noise escapes from Brienne, low enough that he might think it a choked off growl, if it wasn’t for the twitch of her mouth that indicates a suppressed smile. 

How odd it is, Jaime thinks, that the wench takes greater care to hide her smiles from him than she had her own nakedness. That he can recall with perfect clarity the way she had rose from the water and towered over him; exposed and defiant, yet he can only imagine what her laughter sounds like. 

His voice is constricted as he tells her, “You are allowed to smile, even laugh.” He clears his throat and leans in closer, as though to confide a secret. “I vow I will never tell another living soul that you find me irresistibly droll.”

She flushes instead; a deep red that does nothing for her appearance except for how it makes the blue of her eyes stand out all the more. “And what is it that stirs you from your duties this afternoon, Lord Commander?” 

It’s a laughably clumsy attempt to either change the subject or to politely get rid of him. Except Jaime doesn’t laugh because her words remind him that he has come out to the gardens this afternoon for a particular purpose. 

“Oh, seven hells,” he groans. “I forgot.” He has only been talking with Brienne for a few minutes at the most, if he leaves now he will still arrive well within the agreed upon time. Not that Tyrion will mind if Jaime is a little late; his little brother is hardly known for punctuality himself. 

“Is something wrong?” Brienne asks.

“Nothing is wrong,” he assures her. “But I do have a prior engagement that I must get to.”

“Then I shall not detain you any longer, Ser Jaime.” Brienne stands perfectly straight, waiting patiently for him to say his own farewells and depart, but Jaime hesitates. An idea comes to mind–only half-formed but he gives it voice without further thought. 

“Would you care to join us?” 

“Us? Is this a large gathering?” Her tone suggests she would sooner embrace a rotting fish than suffer through such a thing. Fortunately for her, so too would Tyrion. 

“My brother has asked that I join him for an afternoon of wine and gossip. Oh, he may call it keeping me apprised on the affairs of the realm, but don't let that fool you. It's gossip.” 

“So… a garden party with the Lannisters?”

Jaime blinks slowly and considers her words and also every choice he has ever made that has led him to this moment. “In a manner of speaking,” he reluctantly admits, because she isn’t _wrong_. “But I shouldn’t need to tell you that our company is far superior to any Tyrell.”

“And will Sansa Stark be there?” Brienne asks hopefully. 

Jaime suspects the only thing that has prevented Brienne from kicking down each and every door in the Keep in search of her late Lady’s daughter, is the knowledge that she wouldn’t get very far before she was thrown into a cell. And while he admittedly hasn’t given the Stark girl more than a passing thought since his arrival, he imagines that her oath to Catelyn Stark is often at the forefront of Brienne’s mind. At some point soon he will have to talk to her about the futility of trying to keep that oath now that Sansa has no family to be returned to, but now is not the time. 

“I'm afraid not,” he answers. “As I understand it, she has not left her chambers since hearing about the… incident at the Twins.” 

Brinne flinches minutely. “Oh.” She sighs then glances at him with uncertainty. “I wouldn't want to intrude.”

“It's not an intrusion if I've invited you,” he points out, trying not to sound too eager. If she refuses, he will still enjoy the time he spends with his brother. But now the opportunity is before him, he wants for Brienne and Tyrion to meet. It’s important to him, in a way he cannot quite articulate, that the two are introduced–if not today then at least soon. He suspects that despite their opposing personalities, Brienne may find in Tyrion a friend or at least a sympathetic ear when Jaime is otherwise occupied. And he trusts her not to act like the multitudes that have come before who only wanted to know his brother for his gold, or worse, to gawk and laugh at the Imp; Tywin Lannister’s great shame and the gods' punishment for his hubris. 

“If you're sure he wouldn't mind, then yes.” There is still a sense of doubt to her, as though expecting Jaime to retract his invitation, nonetheless Brienne squares her shoulders and says, “I would like to meet your brother. From what I've heard he seems like quite an interesting man.”

“That is one of many words I could use to describe him,” Jaime says, and holds out his left arm for her to take, only for her to react like he just offered her an agitated viper.

There are times he can read Brienne like a book–more easily, in fact, given his struggle with letters. And other times, like now, she mystifies him. She has manhandled him through woods and fields and river, has been tied to him chest to chest, has cleaned shit and vomit and mud and blood off him, has held his naked body in hers, slept next to him on their journey from Harrenhal. And yet she recoils from a simple and polite act, well within the bounds of propriety. 

“It's an arm, not a shackle. And I won't bite.” For a moment Jaime believes he has won, until Brienne focuses on some point over his shoulder and folds her arms behind her back.

“It's unnecessary,” she says impassively. “I thank you ser, but I don't need to be guided.”

Jaime can't pretend he isn't disappointed. Their first night in King's Landing they had walked to the godswood and though Brienne had been grieving Catelyn Stark, it had been she who reached out to him, a gentle and brief touch in order to pull him back from the guilt that had been in danger of consuming him. But who knows better than he; what is permitted in the dark and far away from prying eyes is quite a different matter in the light of day. And if Brienne does not want to be paraded around on the arm of the crippled Kingslayer where anyone can see and speculate, he will not insist on it. 

“Such an obstinate wench,” he says without any real heat and gestures for her to follow him. “Come along then.”

She moves to his right side and matches her pace to his. “Are you planning on introducing me as wench?” she questions. “Or will you remember my name?” 

“Of course I’ll remember your name, my Lady Wench.” Brienne softly kicks out at his ankle with the side of her foot; causing Jaime to stumble and chuckle.

“And you wonder why I don’t laugh at your antics.” she says. “Maybe if you ever said anything even slightly amusing, I would.” 

“You will, Brienne. One day you will.” 

Tyrion had expressed an urgent need to get away from the Red Keep, even if it were only as far as the grounds. To that end he has arranged for the use of a pavilion away from the main paths and secluded enough that anyone who stumbles upon them very likely won't have done so by accident. As they approach, Brienne falters and falls a few steps behind him. If she were a little less bold, Jaime suspects she might try to move behind his back. 

Tyrion stands at the entrance of the pavilion, in conversation with a young man that–based on the description given to him a few days previously–must be Podrick Payne. His brother smiles widely when he sees them, betraying only the barest flicker of curiosity at Brienne’s presence. Instead of making the expected introductions straight away, he kneels to embrace Tyrion who gives a small pleased huff and returns it. And for a short while Jaime forgets his missing hand, Cersei's aloofness, his father's cold fury, and just lets himself take comfort in the arms of his brother.

Once he feels Tyrion begin to pull away, Jaime stands up and gestures to his guest. “Brother, may I introduce the Lady Brienne of Tarth. Brienne, Lord Tyrion Lannister. I came across her on my way to you and thought you’d like to meet the woman who did me the courtesy of keeping me alive long enough to return home. I assure you, I did not make it easy for her.”

“You rarely do,” Tyrion says, then bows his head and gives Brienne a polite smile. His brother often unnerves people the first time they meet him, not just because of his stature, but because of the way he will stare at them; as though capable of peering into someone's soul and learning all he needs to know about them in the span of a handful of seconds. Brienne’s eyes however remain calm under his scrutiny and whatever it is Tyrion sees in her, he must approve–for his practiced and distanced smile becomes more genuine. “It is a pleasure. And you have my sincere gratitude for returning my brother to me.”

Brienne returns his bow and regards him seriously. Jaime is inclined to believe she already thinks favourably of Tyrion, if only for his act of kindness to his too young wife. But there's still time for him to be proven wrong. 

“My lord, I apologise for any inconvenience I—”

“Not at all,” Tyrion interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand. “As you can see, there is more than enough to go around.” They take their seats and Podrick brings over a pitcher and goblets, followed by a silver platter piled high with fruit. Jaime notices straight away that the fruits that would require the use of two hands to eat have already been peeled and segmented–a small kindness that makes him appreciate his brother all the more. 

“Is this your first visit to King’s Landing, Lady Brienne?” Tyrion asks once they all have full goblets and Jaime is sucking the juice from his third orange slice. 

“It is my lord. And please, just call me Brienne.” 

“Then you must call me Tyrion. How do you like our fair city so far?” Jaime watches Brienne visibly struggle to find something to say that won’t run the risk of insulting her hosts. 

After some fumbling she settles on, “Well, I’ve only been here for a few days, I’ve hardly had the time to truly appreciate the city and form an opinion.” A perfectly courteous answer and an obvious lie.

“Give it a few more days,” Tyrion says. “King’s Landing is a cesspit with no redeeming qualities and everybody unfortunate enough to live here hates it. And those that don’t immediately on arrival soon learn to.”

Cutting through the sudden tension before Brienne can reply Jaime says, “The food is good though.” 

“Ah yes, we have the Tyrells to thank for all of this,” Tyrion says, taking Jaime's hint to move onto another subject. He indicates the serving table that nearly groans under the weight of the food and wine that awaits their pleasure. “They may be after everything they can get but at least they have the decency to fatten us up first.” 

“Very magnanimous of them,” Jaime agrees. “But you met with Lady Margaery and her formidable grandmother yesterday, did you not Brienne? I hope you heeded my advice.”

“There was no need,” Brienne says. “Que–Lady Margaery was perfectly lovely and Lady Olenna was… very gracious.” 

Brienne doesn’t look like she believes her own words but Jaime knows Olenna’s reputation well enough to know that if the Queen of Thorns doesn’t like someone, she doesn’t leave them with any doubts to the fact.

“Graciousness is more than anyone at court has received from Olenna,” Tyrion says. “For the most part we just get the sharp edge of her tongue.” He selects a plum and holds it up for inspection. Brienne seemingly takes this as permission to eat something herself, her hand lingers over a ripe peach before she passes it over in favour of the blackberries. 

“If what I hear is true, graciousness is more than her own family receives from Olenna,” Jaime says. 

“She did seem inordinately pleased that I beat her grandson in the melee at K– at Renly's tournament,” Brienne adds.

“I would have liked to see that,” Jaime says, well aware he is in danger of sounding wistful. 

Brienne shrugs and bites into another blackberry. “Maybe Ser Loras will agree to spar with me. A rematch.” There is a dark purple smear at the corner of her mouth. She runs the tip of her tongue across her lips and the stain is wiped away.

Tyrion grins. “Now that is something _I_ would like to see. It isn't that I dislike the boy, you understand, but he is young and arrogant and all young arrogant knights occasionally need to be knocked into the dirt.” His grin turns sharp as he turns to Jaime. “How fortunate you are no longer young, Brother.”

“Indeed,” Jaime replies and smiles. If they'd been alone, he would have thrown a grape at Tyrion's head. 

“He is a brilliant swordsman,” Brienne says, oblivious to the display of fraternal sniping taking place next to her. “I enjoyed the challenge.” 

Jaime bristles at her words. _Loras is “brilliant” and a “challenge” and I was “slower than expected and more predictable” How far I’ve fallen._

“Ser Loras has a certain style, that is true,” he says and takes a generous sip of wine. “But I have often found that people love to overpraise a famous name. Isn't that right, we–Brienne.”

Brienne is glaring at him like she wants to throw something altogether larger and heavier than a grape at him. “Quite,” she bites out. 

Tyrion raises an eyebrow at the two of them but doesn’t ask. “Well the masses are certainly praising Loras Tyrell’s name,” he says instead. “His bravery at the Blackwater has become legendary in a short amount of time.” Tyrion hides it well but Jaime can detect the faint bitterness in his brother’s voice. 

Brienne’s face softens as she turns to Tyrion. “I must admit, I have heard nothing of his deeds during the siege. Just your own.” 

Tyrion laughs dryly. “Whatever my brother has told you is an exaggeration. As you can see, I am no knight.”

“Yet you fought all the same,” she persists. “And without your tactics, Stannis and his men would have had double the numbers they arrived to shore with. Without your courage, your men would have deserted. Without you, the city would have fallen by the time Lord Tywin arrived with the armies of the Reach.” She speaks with such sincerity that Jaime thinks she could tell him the sun was the moon and up was down and he would believe her. “Your brother loves you so maybe he did exaggerate a little,” Brienne continues. “But I don’t think he did and I know he didn’t lie. You saved King’s Landing.” 

He also thinks he may just kiss her. 

Before he can follow that thought any further, Tyrion clears his throat and shakes his head. “Thank you, Brienne. But keep that up and I’ll be the one who needs to be knocked in the dirt.” 

“I thought that was only for young knights,” Jaime jests and Tyrion tilts his goblet in acknowledgement of his words. 

“That is true. In which case, everyone should feel free to feed my vanity,” Tyrion says in an affected tone. “But enough talk of sieges and Tyrells. They aren’t the only thing to have happened since you’ve been gone, Jaime, and I’m certain no one has been keeping you properly appraised on the affairs of the realm.” 

Jaime gives a sharp bark of laughter and winks at Brienne. She says nothing, just brings her goblet to her lips to hide the smile he just knows is there. 


	3. Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the depths of denial that Jaime has sunk to are truly breathtaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have no excuse for why this took so long to update except that 2020 has been a time-warped nightmare of a year and even though I've been lucky in comparsion to so many, it's all so exhausting. But today I'm making the most of my good mood and pushing through on this update. Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos on this story. For anyone who has been waiting for an update, thank you for your patience and I will try to do better. Stay safe out there and be kind.

Threats

For the first time in a long time, Jaime isn’t thinking of the all-consuming agony that was the moment his hand was severed from his wrist, or his year of captivity, or the war that has left half of Westeros in ruins. He isn’t even thinking of how detached Cersei has been with him since his return, or the way his own father has so easily cast him aside.

In the peaceful setting of the gardens of the Red Keep–with the sun warming his skin and the wine warming his blood–he can focus on the here and now; on his brother and Brienne enjoying each other’s company the way Jaime had hoped they would. Occasionally his thoughts will start to take a dark turn but the sound of Tyrion’s laughter or the sight of Brienne looking to him to confirm or refute the younger Lannister’s increasingly outlandish claims (all of which are true) will snap him back to the present. 

Tyrion has just finished telling them about Lady Tanda Stokeworth’s increasingly desperate attempts to woo Littlefinger for her daughter and Jaime nearly chokes on his wine at his brother’s impersonation of the vacuous ladies and the supercilious master of coin. At first glance Brienne is unmoved by Tyrion’s masterful display of mimicry, but on closer inspection there is genuine amusement in her eyes. 

“So we won’t be attending the wedding of Littlefinger and some ill-fated lady anytime soon?” Jaime asks his brother.

Tyrion laughs. “Can you imagine? No, I’m afraid we’ll have to content ourselves with the travesty that will be Joffrey’s wedding.”

“Seventy-seven courses is what I hear,” Jaime says. “And something about a singing competition.”

“No expense has been spared.” Tyrion scoffs. “At _my_ wedding feast I had to provide my own entertainment. Though no one seemed to appreciate my jokes.”

“And at whose expense were these jokes made?”

“Joffrey’s,” Tyrion says succinctly. Jaime laughs, though there is a part of him that wants to lecture his brother on the wisdom of antagonising kings with too much self-importance and a lack of good judgement. 

Brienne, however, no longer looks amused, and is instead staring down at Tyrion with a clouded expression. “I’ve forgotten to offer you my congratulations,” she says flatly. “How are you enjoying married life?”

Tyrion’s face falls at her words and Jaime feels his stomach sink. He doesn’t know who to blame more for the sudden oppressive air to their small gathering–his brother for bringing up his farce of a marriage in the first place, or the wench for not letting the remark go unacknowledged. 

“Not at all,” Tyrion admits, before draining his wine. “I had hoped to avoid the thing altogether, unwedded life suited me so well.” He emphatically gestures for his squire to refill his goblet. “And if indeed I had to marry, Sansa Stark would not be my first choice; if only because I would be very near the last man she’d ever want to wed.” 

Brienne flinches as though Tyrion’s words have physically stung her. Then those pretty blue eyes of hers grow soft and sympathetic, reminding Jaime of the moment she said goodbye to him at Harrenhal. Just before he’d abandoned her. She’d looked at him with such understanding then; knowing he wasn’t going to fight to take her with him, knowing she was being left in the hands of monsters, and at peace with it if it meant there was a chance one of them could uphold their promise to free the Stark girls. Only now does it occur to him why she had so easily accepted her fate–Brienne has never been anyone’s choice. Not even her own.

Then once they were well away from Harrenhal and her wounds were being cleaned by Qyburn, that soft look had become a blend of confusion, gratitude, concern and just the faintest hint of suspicion. After the chainless maester had stitched her flesh back together and left them alone for the first time that day, Brienne had finally asked him why he had come back for her. The only answer Jaime had for her was to shrug and tell her to just be grateful he had. But even after she had thanked him the confusion had remained, and at the time he had thought it was because–despite all he had confessed to her and her apparent change in attitude towards him–she wasn’t truly able to reconcile the vile Kingslayer with any act of selflessness. Now he thinks she would have been just as perplexed had Arthur Dayne himself put his body between her and that bear. 

“Although,” Tyrion continues with a humourless laugh, “I suppose I should be thankful that I rank slightly above the boy who had her father executed.” 

A silence falls over the group, the only sounds are those of nature; birdsong, the wind through the trees and the distant waves as they crash against the cliffs behind them. Tyrion is contemplating the bottom of his goblet while Brienne’s gaze is far away, and Jaime wonders if she is thinking of Catelyn or Renly or any number of people she has loved and lost. It keeps catching him off guard, how little he knows about her. Oh, he knows her personality well enough by now; first and foremost her stubbornness, but also the belief in duty and honour that is embedded in her very bones, the compassion she has for the innocents of the world, her bold and honest nature, even the dry sense of humour she occasionally lets slip through her stoicism. But what Jaime longs to know is how she was forged into the woman that now sits besides him; the joys and tragedies, the triumphs and failures, the secrets and mysteries that make up the story of Brienne of Tarth. 

He could always ask her, he knows this. What he doesn’t know is if she trusts him enough to answer. Or why he should _want_ to know. 

Jaime is startled out of his contemplation when Brienne loudly clears her throat. “I thank you for the hospitality you have shown me,” she says, “but I don’t want to take up all the time you had planned to spend with your brother today.” She gets to her feet, the two Lannisters following her lead moments later. 

“You have not,” Tyrion insists. “I apologise if I have made you feel uncomfortable with my self-pity. It's an unfortunate trait of the Lannisters.”

“There is no need to apologise, Tyrion,” Brienne assures him. “All the same I’m sure there are matters the two of you need to discuss without an audience.” He suppresses it almost immediately, but Jaime catches the flicker of surprise that crosses his brother’s face at her bluntness. 

“As you say.”

Tyrion walks around the table to stand before her and holds out his hand in silent invitation. Her eyes widen, then narrow in quick succession. Jaime sucks in a breath and his spine stiffens with worry that Brienne will shy away from his brother like she had with him only a few hours earlier. But instead of dismissing him, she slowly extends her own hand and allows Tyrion to deliver a dry imitation of a kiss over the back of her hand, before he steps away with a warm and polite smile. The smile she gives him in return isn’t particularly wide or particularly charming, but it is genuine and more than the hastily repressed twitch that Jaime is used to. 

She says a soft farewell to Tyrion, then turns to face Jaime, and for once her smile doesn’t immediately vanish. In the span of three seconds he must change his mind a dozen times as to what he should do and say and whether it would be easier to make a jest about the whole thing rather than subject himself to another rejection or suspicious glare from the wench. Then he sees the faint trembling of her clenched fists, the way the corners of her mouth are turning down, and the blank glaze to her eyes, as though she is seeing something that isn’t the meticulous gardens of the Red Keep and the man standing in front of her. 

And so Jaime starts to raise his hand–or rather his arm, as by force of habit he has offered up his formerly dominant right. For a protracted moment his useless, maimed arm hangs in the air. Then Tyrion makes a small noise–of dismay or possibly hastily stifled amusement–and Jaime drops his arm and moves it behind his back; far too late. 

Brienne is biting her lip again, looking nervous and hunching in on herself. It’s on the tip of Jaime’s tongue to make a self-deprecating jest or to snap at the wench to stop chewing on her lip like a cow with cud, when she straightens determinedly and forcefully thrusts out her hand, almost catching him in the chest. She refuses to look him in the eye–instead focusing her gaze above his head–and if her hand was only trembling before, now it is shaking. 

Jaime almost forgets what he had meant to do before so completely making a fool out of himself, but he maintains enough of his faculties in order to consciously slide his left hand under her palm and gently curl his fingers into a loose grip. The feel of the callused skin that marks her as a dedicated swordswoman is familiar and comforting and he feels a new swell of determination to start his retraining as soon as he finds a discrete and worthy opponent. 

In a practiced, if slightly clumsy, movement, he places a brief but firm kiss to the back of her hand. “My lady,” he says softly. A splotchy blush paints itself over Brienne’s freckled cheeks and spreads down her neck, and he assumes further down still, where it is covered from his sight. 

“Ser,” she mumbles, and snatches her hand back. 

Jaime is painfully aware of Tyrion’s eyes on them, and he regrets it, just a little, not leaving Brienne to her own devices this afternoon. He feels exposed in a way not even being caught in the act with Cersei had left him. Then, he acted decisively. Now… throwing his little brother from a tower probably isn’t the appropriate response, particularly since he can’t say what supposed crime Tyrion has witnessed to warrant such a reaction. A quick glance at Tyrion and Brienne tells Jaime that the former is composed, though the curious glint in his mismatched eyes is unmistakable, and the former looks to be a heartbeat away from flinging herself off the nearest cliff and swimming back to Tarth.

“Goodbye, Brienne.” Jaime realises his tone borders on dismissive but he desperately needs to break this silence and give Brienne her cue to leave without her having to resort to fleeing. With a curt nod and without another word to either Lannister, she turns and strides off. Jaime waits until she has completely disappeared beyond the trees and foliage before shuffling over to her vacated chair across from his brother. 

“Podrick.” Tyrion is back in his seat and beckoning his squire to him. “If you would be so kind as to take a walk. Bring some cakes with you, stroll the gardens, be back in about an hour.” 

“Yes, my lord,” the squire mumbles, and after taking a stack of cakes from the serving table, he takes his leave. 

Jaime is under no illusion as to what happens now. Tyrion is, at heart, a political creature who truly loves the game that his older brother has spent most of his life trying to avoid. The youngest of Tywin’s children is more like him than either will ever acknowledge; they both study the people around them to seek out their weaknesses and motives. It is a deeply ingrained habit that started as a necessity and perfected over a lifetime, something that is as reflexive for Tyrion as breathing. So, while Jaime has been spending _his_ time enjoying the company he’s chosen, his brother has also enjoyed himself, yes, but simultaneously he has been gathering information and carefully listening to every word said for hidden meaning, all while he forms his opinions and readjusts his plans to account for new variables. And now Tyrion is ready to reveal his thoughts, at least partially, to Jaime. 

“Quite the singular woman you’ve bought back with you.” Tyrion’s face is a perfectly crafted blank mask. 

“I suppose, though it might be more fair to say she bought me back.” 

“Ugly.” There is no disgust or condemnation or pity in Tyrion’s voice. The single word is uttered with complete neutrality. 

“Some would say the same about you.” It’s not that Tyrion isn’t saying anything that Jaime hasn’t already thought or said straight to Brienne’s face. His own opinion of her may have changed so much as to be nearly unrecognisable from when they first met but she hasn’t become any prettier for it. 

_And yet._

“ _Everyone_ would say the same about me,” Tyrion corrects amiably. “But I don’t say it as an insult, just a fact.”

“You just spent several hours in her company, I doubt the only _facts_ you learnt about her are the same things anyone could tell you.” 

“Of course not. I also learnt she is kind and honourable to a degree that will likely be detrimental to her health, she is stubbornly loyal to those who have earned her affections, and she is more perceptive than I initially gave her credit for. I do have matters I want to discuss with you that require privacy. One of which is the lady herself.” 

“What of her?” 

“Get her out of King’s Landing as soon as you can.”

Jaime leisurely takes up Brienne’s abandoned goblet, still half-full and takes a sip. “Why the urgency?” he casually asks. Underneath the mask both his mind and heart are racing, frantically wondering if Tyrion’s warning is merely a precaution or if he has heard of an imminent threat to Brienne. 

“I know the intention was to trade you for the Stark girls,” Tyrion says, “but now Catelyn Stark is dead. Robb Stark is dead. Her father and her younger brothers and almost certainly her sister–all dead. The Boltons have Winterfell. The Tullys are currently occupied with being imprisoned or missing and while Lysa Arryn may be an option, I’m not certain Sansa would find the safety she hopes for there.” 

“What are you saying?”

“What I am telling you,” Tyrion says with just a touch of impatience, “is that whatever grand dreams your lady knight has of returning my wife to her loving family are now impossible. It would be better for everyone if she just left well enough alone.”

“Brienne will want to at least see the girl for herself,” Jaime points out.

“And I strongly recommend she not.”

“Why ever not?” Jaime scoffs. “It’s not like she’ll be able to sneak out of the city carrying the girl in a sack. She isn’t what anyone would call inconspicuous.”

Tyrion sighs deeply. “Jaime… the lady wasn’t thrown into a cell upon her arrival because of your insistence that she was your guest and should be treated as such. But there have been eyes on her since she stepped foot through the gates to the Keep and if she, Stark loyalist that she is, were to be seen talking to a political prisoner—”

“She doesn’t serve the Starks.” It’s an asinine thing to say and completely besides the point but Brienne’s words ring in his ears. _I don’t serve the Starks, I serve Lady Catelyn._ The death of her lady hasn’t changed her determination to keep her oaths. 

Tyrion looks decidedly unimpressed with the interruption. “It doesn’t matter which Starks she did or did not serve, it’s all the same to Father. And as you are currently on his list of family members he no longer chooses to acknowledge, there will be little you can do to persuade him against throwing your friend in the Black Cells should he have a mind to.” 

Jaime is aware of his reputation, not just as the Kingslayer, but as the stupidest Lannister. He has heard the jokes; Cersei inherited ambition, Tyrion inherited intelligence and all that was left for poor Jaime was his ability to swing a sword very well. And he won’t deny there is some truth to it; academic pursuits were never where his strengths lay and he has no interests in political scheming or the game of thrones that his siblings and father have dedicated their lives to. 

However, he does have a firm grasp of military strategy and tactics, he knows the minutiae of commanding and supplying an army, and he hasn’t spent his life surrounded by the most powerful men in the realm without absorbing at least a little of their acumen. He also didn’t just spend a year of his life as a hostage, only to _not_ understand the value of one. Tarth hadn’t declared for anyone following Renly’s death but Lord Selwyn only has one child and she is currently living under the scrutiny of the Lannisters and the Iron Throne. There is a reason Jaime’s first act upon his arrival, even before he allowed himself to go to Cersei, was to claim Brienne as his guest and make clear his intention she be treated as such. Tarth may not have much in the way of resources or numbers but Joffrey’s crown is still precariously placed and Tywin would be a fool to not use every advantage at his disposal to sway any and all allies to their cause, especially those with naval forces situated in the Stormlands, half of whom serve Stannis. Despite what Tyrion may believe, he has always been aware of the dangers to Brienne as long as she remains in the capital. He had been hopeful of at least arranging a conversation between Brienne and Sansa–the former for her own peace of mind and so that the latter may learn that her mother, at least, had never given up on her. 

“I will talk to Brienne about Sansa and explain everything,” Jaime placates. It is, after all, what he set in his mind to do only a few hours ago. “But it can’t be until after the wedding,” he reminds his brother. “It would be seen as an insult or a snub to the King if she were to leave before then.” He almost laughs at the dichotomy of the politics that guide the lives of the highborn, that Brienne’s presence is considered a threat yet her absence would be an insult. 

“Good,” Tyrion says, seemingly assured of Jaime’s compliance. “Though there is a potential danger you may have overlooked.” At Jaime’s questioning look, Tyrion elaborates. “Cersei. Our sweet sister hates your new friend.”

Jaime shakes his head, unconvinced of that, despite Tyrion’s seriousness. “They’ve never met.” 

“And yet Cersei has hated Brienne of Tarth ever since she first heard her name in relation to yours.” 

While Jaime knows Cersei isn’t thrilled to have Brienne in King’s Landing–knowing full well she has been the protector of two of Joffrey’s enemies–he doubts she has given more than a minute’s thought to the large, ugly and unrefined Brienne of Tarth. Particularly not when half of Cersei’s welcome home tirade to Jaime had consisted of her berating him for not being there to keep Joffrey away from the _“poisonous rose who is trying to usurp my place and turn my son against me.”_ If any woman is occupying Cersei’s waking thoughts, it is the future Queen Margaery. 

“How could you possibly know that?” Jaime questions. 

“Because I know our sister. She is possessive, vindictive, jealous and will attack anyone she perceives to be a threat to what is hers.”

“In what possible way is Brienne a threat to Cersei?”

“In Cersei’s mind, everyone is a threat to her control. She resents that she was never able to make you hate me the same way she does, it meant there was always a part of you, however small, that wasn’t hers.” Jaime opens his mouth to object to this assessment of both his and Cersei’s character, but Tyrion only continues more forcefully, “It isn’t exclusive to you. She hates any favour Tommen and Myrcella show me. She hates Margaery for being able to control Joffrey where she cannot. She hates Elia Martell for marrying the prince that Father promised her. She hates Lyanna Stark for being the obsession of both Rhaegar and Robert. Two women, dead for decades and Cersei still nurtures her hatred of them as though they were still a threat to her today. I know you have made an art of turning a blind eye to her flaws but even you must have noticed this particular one.”

Tyrion is wrong; it’s not that he can’t see Cersei’s flaws, he just doesn't see them as such. What others call greed, Jaime calls ambition. Where others see pride, he sees a woman who refuses to be belittled. Others think she is cold but Jaime knows how fiercely she can burn. 

Tyrion is also right; Cersei does not share. Not willingly, anyway. She has always made it clear to Jaime that she doesn't understand the love she has for their little brother, just as surely as he doesn’t understand her hatred. She wants the affections of her children to belong solely to her–admittedly something that Robert Baratheon made easy to achieve. She hates not being the first and foremost, and so much the better if she is the only.

When they were still children at Casterly Rock, Cersei had a friend–the daughter of one of Tywin’s bannermen. Jaime no longer remembers her name, he hasn’t thought of her in years. He does remember though, when they were ten or eleven, and the girls had demanded he play the knight for them and declare one of them his Queen of Love and Beauty. And of course he was always going to crown Cersei, painstakingly making her a crown of orange lilies because he thought they would go well with her golden hair. He had also made a wreath for her friend, crafted with less care than his sister’s and made with daisies, but it hadn’t seemed fair to Jaime to leave the other girl out. He’d named her the Princess of Love and Beauty and she’d giggled and blushed and Cersei had raged and refused to talk to either of them for several days after. The princess had died not too long after that day, and was soon forgotten by the Lannister twins. 

But what any of this has to do with Brienne eludes Jaime. The only threat that the wench poses to Cersei is in either the impossibly slim chance she succeeds in smuggling Sansa Stark out of the city, or from a purely physical standpoint. And the only reason Brienne would raise a hand to Cersei is if his twin were to suddenly develop superior swordsmanship skills and attacked the younger woman. Since there is a greater chance of Jaime growing his hand back then that ever happening, he can only conclude that Tyrion is, in fact, talking out of his ass. 

“Brienne is no threat to Cersei,” Jaime tells his brother adamantly. “I can promise you that.”

Tyrion just shakes his head, as if in disbelief of his brother’s delusion, and unsubtly changes to subject to how the population of King’s Landing had changed their opinion of Joffrey in the wake of Margaery Tyrell’s arrival. 

As Jaime lays in bed that night, on the precipice of sleep, her name comes to him unbidden; his Princess of Love and Beauty. Melara. Melara Hetherspoon–pretty and bold and freckled and forever young.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orange lilies symbolise hatred, pride, and disdain. A beautiful fuck you of a flower. Daisies symbolise innocence and purity, though I didn't choose those for the meaning, but because they're less ostentatious than lilies.


End file.
